The Ledge
by ElaineRadley
Summary: Gillian is standing at the precipice of reality and delusion. Can her own senses even be trusted at this point?
1. Chapter 1

_**This is a bit of a departure. Or maybe you could even call it an experiment. I'm not really sure. The idea crept in and as I'm more likely to do than not, I went with it. Might be a stand-alone but then again, maybe not. Opinions are always welcome.**_

* * *

They'd made love for the first time before he left. It had just happened. Well, that wasn't exactly true, was it? From the very beginning it had been inevitable to everyone, _everyone else_, that is. They'd both been clueless, at least consciously. Subconsciously, well that had been a different story. They'd been doing a lot lying all these years. To themselves. To one another. It wasn't befitting two lie detection experts but it's always hardest to see what's staring you right in the face.

The clarity was sudden, striking, from the moment she'd taken his hand. As if they'd both awakened from a long nap. His eyes had told her the same thing. Everything had crystalized for him as well.

From the breath before their lips and bodies connected, they knew it was forever. It should have always been this way but admonishment was pointless. They were there _now_. There was no going back. And it was good, perfect, wonderful. He would be a better man for her. Only for her.

But there was one thing to do first. The past had reared up and he was obligated to leave for a bit. A month. Maybe six weeks. Surely no more than that. The shadowy history he never spoke of had laid claim to him and there was nothing to be done.

Gillian cried as he'd held her that night, his kisses firm and reassuring against her temple, cheeks, eyes. His hands caressed her skin softly. Where they had worshiped her before, they now sought to comfort.

"It'll be fine luv, I promise. They'll have my back. They always do."

She didn't know who "they" were and didn't ask, doubtless he wouldn't answer. The veil would fall behind his eyes and she couldn't bear to see it happen. Especially not tonight.

Falling asleep was bittersweet. She'd nestled against him, arm possessive around his chest, leg anchoring over his, determined to hold on but knowing he'd be gone when her eyes opened again, the morning sun warm against her face.

She'd been right.

The note was propped against her alarm clock. Her hand trembled when she'd reached for it.

_ Gillian,_

_ It somehow seems dishonest for me to slip away while it's still dark and I apologize (do wonders ever cease?) but it couldn't be helped. My choices are limited but it would never be a conscious one to hurt you. I'm done with that. I'm done with being an ass, I promise you that. Just know that I love you and hope you will accept me back into your heart when I come home to you. And back into your bed too, if it's not too much trouble._

_ Take care and see you soon,_

_ Cal_

* * *

Nine days later she'd gotten the call.

The glass she'd been holding had slipped from between numb fingers and turned into a hundred shards twinkling like crystal in the movements of fan and light. She sank down in the mess, cutting her palms and lending the color of rubies to the mix.

They'd told her the wreckage was impossible to locate. The prop plane had been swallowed by the jungle and the jungle was unforgiving. They'd pulled the plug on the rescue after 96 hours, citing the odds of survival at zero. 96 hours. Four days to decide whether there was life or death and they banked on death. They'd siphoned their information through foreign diplomacy. _They_.

Gillian awoke as the sun stabbed through her drapes. Her normal routine was to get up and make herself tea. One of the many little quirks she'd found she'd absorbed from him. She wondered if he'd picked up any of hers and found she couldn't remember. There must have been something but whatever they might be tormented her from the other side of the abyss.

She'd barely left her bed for two weeks after the phone call and then she'd chosen to stay within the comforting walls of her home for another two weeks before finally taking the plunge and stepping back into her life. The life with the huge gaping hole in it, the one ripped apart before she'd had a chance to fully explore it.

Padding into the kitchen, she put on the kettle, pivoting to pull a cup from the cabinet and the box of PG tips from the pantry. She bought it at the little British Pantry. It wasn't around the corner but she enjoyed the drive. Sometimes she'd even treat herself to sticky toffee pudding.

She'd felt a lot of pressure to make a decision about the business. The Lightman Group without Lightman had turned it into a misnomer. From a profit point of view, it was holding its own despite the occasional client questions. Ria and Eli were at the top of their game and Gillian was indebted to them. They'd truly shone their loyalty to her, to Cal's memory but mostly to her. She was very aware and wondered on more than one occasion if a partnership between the three of them would be in order. But seven months later it still hadn't been done. Cal's crazy mugging photos and the lighted sign had remained. The pressure still held but she'd come to realize it was an internal pressure. No one had said a word.

It should have gotten better. As a psychologist she knew the grief process intimately but she seemed to have somehow been caught between the steps, unable to move forward to find the peace of acceptance. It put her into a constant state of flux. Professionally, she slipped into her role, congratulating herself on her Academy Award winning material but when no one was around, the character crumbled.

She'd been creeping up to that ledge more and more often, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. It was mostly in her dreams in the beginning but as time marched, the ledge began to spill over into her waking world. Sometimes it had scared the hell out of her, other times, it was warm and inviting. _Come close,_ _take a look, peer down into the abyss_. _Maybe you'll see everything you've missed. He was waiting._ You knew he'd always be waiting. It was forever, remember?

The day Gillian picked up the phone to make an appointment was the day the second call came.

There had been no glass to break this time. Just bloodless fingers gripping her cell as she folded to the carpet.

* * *

The tea kettle was whistling and it was enough to pull her from her ruminations. She poured the boiling water, sloshing it over the side as her hand shook. Returning to the breakfast bar, she was sure to hold it securely between her palms. The ceramic threatened to burn her flesh but it was only a short couple of steps. Besides, a burn would have been welcome. It would be a reminder she and this day existed.

It was a day she was assured would never happen.

They had said zero percent probability.

_They_. Obviously _they_ didn't know a fucking thing. Least of all, him.

Gillian glanced up at the kitchen clock. She'd slept late. She did that a lot. If she wasn't working, she was sleeping. She couldn't remember the title of the last book she'd read and the thought saddened her.

Despite this new information, she still stood on the ledge, still cautiously peeking down in an attempt to catch a glimpse of him. She wondered what he'd look like. Would he be what she remembered? Would death be kind or cruel?

Of course it was possible this wasn't really happening. The ledge was tricky that way.

She brought the cup to her lips, sighing before the heat filled her mouth and flowed down her throat. He'd been right. A cup of tea could work wonders. Her body sagged slightly but her heart contradicted with more spasms than actual heartbeats.

When the doorbell sounded, she jumped and hit her knees on the bottom of the bar.

Who the hell would be on the front step on a Saturday morning?

_You know._

She did but she didn't believe it. They were supposed to have his back and they didn't. They said he couldn't have survived but he did. Gillian had the urge to hunt down "they" and beat them with a tire iron. Whoever _they_ were.

Sliding off the barstool, she moved on silent feet to the entry. There was movement through the window but the pebbled texture of glass prevented any kind of recognition.

Throwing the locks and disengaging the chain, she slowly pulled the door toward her.

A man stood on her front stoop. His sandy hair was long, past his collar but not quite to his shoulders and carelessly pushed away from his brow. A full but patchy beard hid much of his gaunt face but deep, hazel eyes stared at her from beyond weathered skin. A ragged scar cut through one brow and continued for a couple of inches down his cheekbone. His pants were military, shirt just a thermal under a battered leather jacket. A duffle bag was clutched in his right hand and Gillian noted the cracked skin of his knuckles and slim lines of blood.

She moved aside to allow him entrance.

He dropped his bag in the entry and swept his eyes over the living room and kitchen before returning to study her. Gillian thought she heard the tiniest of sighs.

"Would you like some tea?" She wasn't sure what else to say or where to start. She honestly didn't even want to engage but did so anyway, in the event he wasn't a hallucination.

"That would be nice."

Gillian felt his presence follow her to the breakfast bar. Her own tea had cooled. She'd have to remedy that. Busying herself, she didn't look at him but instinctively knew his gaze was affixed to her.

"Are you hungry? I could make something."

"I'm all right luv."

_All right? Really?_ _She_ was a lot of things but _all right_ wasn't one of them. Anger flared and she couldn't understand exactly why. None of this was his fault. Unless you traced back into his 20's and early 30's. Then maybe it was. Decisions made in youth had almost destroyed the man he'd matured into. And her. It had come close to destroying _her_. The ledge still beckoned in the event that none of this was real.

"Are you?" She pivoted to scrutinize him.

He went quiet but his breath hitched.

"_Are you_?" She repeated, wanting, needing, to hear his voice.

"I don't know."

He slumped onto a barstool and ran his hands through his hair. In the light she could see where it was a slightly greasy. She could also see dark smudges under eyes scrunched in a pervasive wince and cracked, sore lips.

"I'm sorry Gillian." The man's gaze fell forward to study his shaking hands. "I promised everything would be okay."

She wanted to touch him but remained fearful. A huge part of her was convinced her fingers would slide through him like smoke and she'd wake in her large, empty bed with a cry in her throat and a dark shadow over her heart.

"You mean it's not?"

The man glanced up at her, curious but pained. "I don't know."

Gillian filled his cup, dipped the teabag in a few times before letting it steep. She set it in front of him, hearing his murmured thanks, close enough to smell sweat, dirt and tobacco. He hadn't smoked in years. Had he picked up the habit again? Or was he just in close proximity with someone who did?

Stepping back, she watched him curl his hands around the cup, savoring the warmth, his head tilting forward once more, hair falling across his eyes.

That's when it hit her. She could _smell_ him. Had she been able to smell him when she was peering over the ledge in her dreams?

The breath strangled in the back of her throat. _No, she hadn't_.

_Oh my God._

"Cal?"

He tilted his shaggy head her way, pained expression lessening. "Yeah, luv?"

"Is this real?" Her breathing resumed but her words trembled. "I need to know this is real."

Understanding seemed to flicker within his eyes. He slowly held out a hand to her.

Gillian didn't move but the offer remained.

"I'm afraid."

"I know, darlin' but that doesn't mean you don't have courage. You're one of the bravest people I've ever known." His eyes remained on hers. "It's one of the many reasons I fell in love with you."

She tried to pull her gaze away but couldn't. She found herself stepping toward the ledge, while he waited patiently, hand still outstretched. It wouldn't take much. Just another foot and she'd be able to brush his fingertips with hers.

"You don't smell very good."

The smile was instant and moved up into his eyes. "I apologize for that. Not my intention to stink up your kitchen. There just hasn't been a lot of time…" He stopped and the smile disappeared back into his beard.

No. She wanted the smile back. She didn't want the baggage. Gillian ignored his hand and stepped behind him, sensing him tense.

She could smell the leather of his jacket.

With a tentative touch, she reached out and traced the stitching down his shoulder. It felt rough against her fingers but the leather was worn and supple. Solid. It was solid. Heart shuddering a little faster, she rested a hand on each shoulder and lightly traced down his upper arms before returning.

Maybe she'd stepped off the ledge and that was why he felt solid.

"Gillian." He slowly swiveled on the stool but caught her hand before she could back away.

She stared at their entwined fingers, captivated by the rough warmth of his skin.

_If this weren't real, he wouldn't be warm._

A sob was acid in her throat as her nose burned and her eyes watered. Not a single sound escaped as he moved her hand toward him and gently rubbed the back of it against his beard. The whiskers were long enough to be silken. She suddenly felt safe enough to bring her other hand up to sift through the hair at his temple. It was so soft.

_Oh my God_.

The ledge was receding from around her. She didn't need to creep up and sneak a peek over the side. He wasn't in the abyss. He was right her in front of her. Warm, real, smelly. Cal. _Her_ Cal.

On silent feet, she inched forward and wrapped her arms around him. His cheek rested against her breast and when his hands slid behind her back, his shoulders began to shake.


	2. Chapter 2

She stopped and stared.

The headline was eye-catching, sensationalistic and she hated it.

_"Prominent Scientist Returns from Dead."_

A photo accompanied the pseudo news story. It was one from about four years ago and it featured the two of them. A fundraiser she'd talked him into attending. He'd looked good. _They'd_ looked good. Of course it had been taken before Cal had disappeared with some redhead with a short, tight dress and daisies tattooed around her wrist.

He was a different man back then.

He was a different man now.

At least that was the perception. She'd held him tightly during his emotional release (would _her _Cal have cried like that?), after which she'd drawn him a bath. He had followed dutifully and hadn't hesitated when removing his pungent smelling clothing. She'd seen his ribs and vertebrae a little too easily before slipping away to give him some privacy.

Of course he still could be a figment of her imagination too.

It was hard to say. She would have thought a hallucination would be more… interactive. After all, he would be a deep-rooted part of her to do with as she pleased. In theory it made sense, in reality, not so much.

She read the headline again. Six times, actually.

It shouldn't have been a surprise. Calls had begun yesterday afternoon and it wasn't long before "no comment" scratched out with uncharacteristic venom. She'd protect him from the circling vultures even if she _was_ teetering or falling over the ledge. It was her nature. She'd always done everything she could to protect him. It didn't make a difference it the threat was real or imagined.

The rags had taken her silence as a green light to fiction.

At least she expected it was fiction.

The quiet figure in her home wasn't saying either way.

At the clearing of the throat behind her, she moved up in the grocery line. She had gone out in an attempt to escape from the pervasive haze and it seemed logical to fill her empty pantry and refrigerator. Cal needed to gain some weight back and hot cocoa and ice cream weren't the best means to that end.

The cashier smiled and Gillian exchanged pleasantries with him. Seconds later she wasn't even sure what he'd said. Something about the unseasonable heat but she couldn't be sure.

She waited as he packed her reusable bags. Yes, even in her teetering and sloping world, she was environmentally conscious. It was part of who she was.

Before stepping toward the door, she glanced over her shoulder toward the impulse items. The pseudo newspaper was gone.

* * *

He was still asleep, curled on his side, brows pulled together in a pervasive frown.

Gillian watched him from the doorway, a sudden troubling yet oddly comforting thought occurring to her. What if they'd somehow changed places? Maybe he was the one on the ledge looking for her. Maybe everything had twisted and warped, resulting in her death and his mourning. It would explain his appearance and withdrawal.

Was it possible?

Anything was possible. Her reality was so askew that she couldn't be sure of anything. At this point she wouldn't be surprised if her slippers began to recite Shakespearean soliloquies to her.

They needed to talk and figure it all out. Just the two of them. One figment of imagination to another.

Her hesitant steps became stronger as she approached the side of the bed and lowered herself next to him.

He was clean, the welcome scent of his flesh in her nose. Reaching out, she brushed through his hair, expecting him to startle, expecting the need to apologize.

He didn't.

His eyes opened, blinked once before he turned his head and kissed her palm. His lips were scratchy but his face was soft in wonder.

"You really here darlin'?" The voice, usually silky, came out tinged with gravel.

"You don't think this is real?" Gillian breathed as a quiver ran up her arm and settled in her heart.

"Dunno. I've had _so_ many dreams. They were the only place I could find any peace."

Gillian's insides curdled as she digested his statement. She took a shaky breath and allowed her fingers to sift through his beard, deciding she didn't like it. She wanted to see more of his face. "You're not alone."

"Are you sure?"

She wasn't. She was probably the last person he should be asking that. "We're together."

"Were in my dreams too."

The smile was tiny, a flickering flame easy to blow out if they weren't careful. "I suppose we might be at an impasse."

"Hmmm…maybe." He appeared to consider this for a moment before she felt his hand curl into hers. His flesh was rough and she remembered the faint lines of blood. "When I left I asked if you'd accept me back into your bed." The tug was firm but gentle. "I honestly hadn't meant to be in it on my own."

She allowed him to pull her down under the comforter, aligned with his frame, face tucked into the hollow of his neck. A sigh escaped her even as a sob followed and stuck somewhere behind her soft palate.

"Don't cry, luv." Cal whispered into her hair, obviously having heard the tiny catch.

He knew her so damned well. Better than anyone. Her parents, her brother, her husband – none of them had known her like Cal did. They'd gone into a relationship emotionally naked. It had been frightening but ultimately empowering. The bond was cemented. Forever.

"I'm afraid this isn't real." Her breath pulsed against his skin and she could feel it warm to sultry.

"I know."

"In the morning you'll be gone." A tear pushed past her defenses. "You always are."

"I'll try not to be this time." He pressed his lips to the top of her head, his soft exhalation causing a tiny cascade of movement in her hair. "But you need to promise the same."

"Okay."

His arms tightened around her, his body filling every single gap against hers. It reminded her how well they fit. "How 'bout we take one moment at a time? Maybe as the moments pass, reality will make itself known…one way or another."

This sounded reasonable. If he was still there in the morning, maybe she'd even make some omelets or maybe _he_ would. It would be just like before he went away. It was a good theory at least. "Do you think it'll work?"

Cal paused, as if contemplating his words. That hadn't been the norm before. "Not sure." His lips pressed against her again and she closed her eyes. "Figure it can't hurt. I mean, doesn't everyone sleepwalk through life in one way or another? This could very well be a waking dream for both of us but God I hope not. I don't want to open my eyes and still be in the other place."

She wondered what "the other place" was but didn't ask. If reality presented itself, he might tell her but if not, she wanted to stay within his embrace and keep the darkness at bay. She didn't want to stand and peer over the ledge but if she had to, she wanted him to be by her side.

Kissing his neck, she felt and heard the low rumble of contentment go through him. She decided in that moment that she didn't care if they tumbled off the ledge together. Wherever this was, whether it was reality or the delusion of a mind in irreversible mourning, it didn't matter. This was where she wanted to stay. This was a carefully woven tapestry of love, tenderness, warmth, with a hint of loss balanced with acceptance. And she was okay with that.


	3. Chapter 3

He'd free fallen into darkness, disoriented, afraid. It hadn't been his choice. He hadn't had one, period. The fall had been broken by the opening of the chute but he'd been at the mercy of fate and of course fate had proven unkind.

Thick foliage caught, held, and then dropped him, branches tearing, impaling and then there was nothing until the awkward dragging, watching the moon appear in tease before hiding behind trees, clouds.

There was no concept of time. It didn't exist. Just fever dream anecdotes of old women healing and young eyes watching, curious, frightened. Consciousness was a blur and unconsciousness brought images of Gillian. His Gillian. He wanted so badly to be within the comforting circle of her arms and the truth of it tormented, antagonized. It was not to be. He'd die alone. It was inevitable.

The words were indecipherable, liquids unpalatable. The frowning was universal. He understood that. Sometimes he'd get a smile. He understood that too.

Young eyes turned less frightened, more fascinated. They enveloped him, watching, touching the pale skin of his arms, but were soon shooed off by the women. They'd come back. They always did. Cal began to look forward to their visits. Children carried little baggage.

He'd grown stronger and began to attempt more communication. How far was the city? The women shook their heads, the men dismissed him. He was persistent. He always was. His attempts to convey his urgency finally amounted to something. Okay, they'd lead him close, but not too close. Not that he could blame them. But it didn't matter, no, not at all, just as it didn't matter he'd survived.

Because that was when _they'd_ arrived. They'd won the race, so his threadbare life was once more called into question.

* * *

The warmth of a body had replaced the crypt chill of concrete and Cal slid his eyelids apart but just a crack. He didn't want the illusion to fade. It always did but he struggled to hold on to it, even more than usual. He was quite impressed the comfort hadn't disappeared. Not yet.

His dream (he was _sure_ it was a dream) brought his hand to the hip of the figure spooned in front of him. The movement was slow, speculative. How far would the unconscious allow? How long before he awoke spitting dust and blood?

It was smooth, only obscured by the thin fabric of an undergarment. His hand moved to a flat belly, still warm, still solid. Her tank top had rumpled upward in sleep and he didn't have to see to imagine.

He was pressing his luck. Any moment she'd disappear and he'd be tumbling into nothingness again. It was a familiar pattern.

Brushing his lips against the slender curve of her neck brought the sound of a tiny moan to his ears and he smiled, happy in the moment. Happy, despite the probability of it slipping through his fingers like sand.

The figure moaned again before turning over and burying her head against his chest. "You're still here," she mumbled.

"So are you."

Gillian pulled back to sleepily blink into his eyes. "Not a dream?"

"You tell me." He kissed her forehead.

She studied him from under a deep frown, her eyes growing more lucid as moments passed. "I'd like to see your face." One hand reached up and gently traced the scar cutting through his brow and down his cheek. "Are there more of these you're trying to hide?"  
"Would that bother you?" His voice sounded wary, even to him. Gillian would never cast him aside for a few scars but how could he be so sure of her reaction if this wasn't real? What if his childhood fear of loss had accompanied him into his delusion?

"No." Her fingers continued to explore, brushing through his beard, soft, loving and he closed his eyes in relief and lingering exhaustion. "Would you allow me to shave it off later?"

He opened his eyes again but only part-way. Darkness still blanketed most of the bedroom, save for thin wisps of moonlight against the comforter. Sleep beckoned once more. "Would that make it more real for you?" _For me? _

"Maybe."

"Knock yourself out then." His lids slid down, blocking his sight of her once more but warmth followed.

She'd been smiling.

* * *

Her expression was one of annoyance and challenge. _No more secrets? Prove it._

The terror in her eyes and tears running down her cheeks when she began to suspect he may not escape from beneath the man's gun.

Their first kiss was before an audience, but surprisingly only for one another. It had been emblazoned on his brain for months. He could still feel it when he drifted.

The panic and then relief when he and Reynolds got to her before her attacker could take his plan to fruition.

Her face, luminous, on the balcony with Frank Sinatra crooning. Gillian drunkenly swaying with him in an impromptu dance which almost brought out his confession. Almost.

When he awoke again, the warm, loving figure was gone once more and a low tormented moan began to rattle upward from deep within.

No. Please.

He'd rather be dead than endure another day.

Or maybe he was. Maybe this was hell – continuously giving before taking away. Cruel. Effective.

Flipping over, he expected to smack against something cold and unyielding. Instead he sunk into softness. A pillow. And it smelled like her.

He pulled a long breath in, inhaling it, isolating it, making sure it wasn't a fluke.

Gillian's scent didn't vanish in the gap between sleep and wakefulness.

The sob burned his throat on escape but he didn't allow another to follow when opening his eyes and sitting up to focus on his surroundings.

Soft pastels. Two textured walls running perpendicular to one another. Goose down pillows. Oak furniture. A soothing Monet print above the bureau. Photos. So many photos. Family, friends, Emily, _him_. Books on her nightstand. Cal squinted at them. Squinted at their fine layer of dust. Odd.

So many details. Should there be this many details?

There should have been a Mombasa canopy. He'd always expected her to be the type to enjoy flowing lace but she didn't have one. She never had. He should ask her why.

Cal scooted over and dropped his legs over the side of the bed. He was clad in pajama bottoms but shirtless. A shiver trembled through and had him up and moving toward the bureau, hoping for some overly large t-shirt or sweatshirt he could borrow. What month was this again?

He didn't know.

Was the chill inward or outward?

He couldn't tell.

The aroma of bacon had him pausing, one arm pushed through a sleeve, the other caught mid-air.

He wasn't much of a breakfast person but his salivary glands kicked in with ferocity at the same time his stomach twisted in pain.

When was the last time he'd eaten?

He didn't know that either. It was starting to piss him off how little he knew and some part of him somewhere recognized the emotion as a good thing. Anger touched based with reality.

Following the smell of food, he padded out of the bedroom, his feet soundless against the plush carpet of the hallway.

Cal stopped several feet from the kitchen, watching as she moved between stove, sink and counter. She didn't see him and he had several moments to study her. Her hair was longer now. He hadn't noticed before. Gillian had it pulled back in a ponytail that wavered the opposite direction as she moved. Blond highlights had been replaced with a touch of silver. She'd aged. Subtle but there. That was probably his fault, at least in part. Still beautiful though. Time would never change that.

She twirled toward him with lovely grace he envied.

There was misjudgment though. And surprise. She'd meant to tend the sizzling bacon on the griddle, tongs in hand. But his appearance must have rattled her. Had she forgotten already?

Grace gone, she stumbled, one hand reaching out for the counter, brushing the edge of the griddle. A soft cry escaped as two burned fingers went to her mouth on instinct.

He'd frozen but just for a moment. Not even that. Then he was moving toward her, by her side, inspecting the injuries on her left hand, on the pads of her index and middle fingers. One was red, one starting to blister.

Guiding her to the sink, he ran the water cold and gently pushed her hand under the flow, hearing her gasp, instantly sorry.

"My grandmother used to put butter on burns." Her voice shook slightly.

"So did mine. Merit to some old remedies but not all, yeah?" He smiled at her. "That one was always on the creepy side."

A giggle burst from her and she leaned into him. The giggles became incessant and it didn't take him long to realize his t-shirt was becoming damp from laughter merging with tears and then disappearing completely.

He cut the water and pulled her properly against him, kissing her hair as her breathless crying shook her body in spasms, the sobs harsh, unrelenting.

The smell of burning bacon was filling the room when he noticed she'd also lost some weight. Her lovely curves were a little bit more jutting.

They'd both been looking over the ledge into oblivion but with the acrid blend of blackened breakfast contrasting with the scent of conditioner in his nose, it occurred to him that this was real. It had to be. No hallucination or delusion could be this intricate, could it? But then again, he'd never been crazy or dead before either…


	4. Chapter 4

She had stopped crying.

He wasn't sure when but the embrace held for what seemed like forever. Maybe it was. If that were the case, he was certainly good with it.

Gillian moved her face from the crook of his neck, gazing up at him, studying intently. She appeared as if she were trying to figure something out. He wondered if it was still the quandary they both were lost in or something new.

It happened quickly but it didn't surprise him. He was learning to go with it. Go with the flow. It was very Taoist of him but events left him in that uncontrolled frame of mind. When one fights too hard, it simply means it wasn't meant to be and it was time to move on.

She clasped his cheeks, not reacting to the feel of her burned fingers in his beard.

Cal winced for her instead. It _had_ to hurt.

The sudden movement of her hands on his face slowed. Gently, she brought him down closer to her and explored his forehead with her lips, followed closely with a press to each eyelid. She trailed his scar with her fingertips before tracing it with her mouth.

His eyes followed every motion but he remained immobile, waiting.

She kissed each cheek, her grasp firm but tender and then stilled. Her eyes closed and she pulled in a long breath, her chest pushing against his. He thought he felt her heartbeat.

"You're really home." Her voice was wispy but held a burgeoning certainty.

So many details. Her fair complexion peppered with adorable freckles. The strands of chestnut laced with minute silver bobbing in front of her face when she exhaled. The slight chapping of her lips. The aroma of coffee on her breath mingling with the smell of burnt breakfast somewhere on the periphery.

_Was he really home?_

Gillian's eyes opened. They seemed even bluer now. Hands still firm, she kissed the divot beneath his nose, his upper lip, lower lip, hovered before him, waiting. She'd been waiting a very long time.

So had he.

One hand settled on her waist, ribbed cotton beneath his fingers. She still wore a tank top. The other flicked up to the side of her neck, his thumb brushing over her pulse point. It drummed, excited under his touch. Her body remembered. His fingers tightened ever so slightly at the nape of her neck.

He tilted his forehead down to connect with hers, inhaling all of her, all the familiarity but also a touch of rediscovery. His lips brushed to hers in the barest of kisses, the barest of connections. Angling downward, he ran lips lightly across her throat. She shuddered and moved her head back to expose more flesh.

He tasted the sweet saltiness of her but detected an underlying bitterness. Probably from soap. _Bitterness._ Not something a delusional mind would take note of.

Cal pulled back sharply to gaze at her face. Sudden fear. Fear of him vanishing? As he observed, the fear melted away, replaced by hope hinging on excitement.

Relief and joy washed through him in equal parts. This wasn't a hallucination and he wasn't dead. There was no way. Not with bitterness and fear. They were too concrete in the real world.

All the darkness, all the fear, all the uncertainty shifted and contorted to the here and now. She didn't disappear is a dream haze or pain induced hallucination. Solid warmth lined up with him. Perfect as it always was, even before they'd known their true fit.

Her gasp of surprise reached his ears when he melded his lips with hers.

Her hands left his cheeks and clasped behind his neck. "I've missed you so much!" It was a barely a whispered sob against his kiss, quickly dissolving within.

He caressed her waist, her top riding up, the supple skin under his fingers making him tingle inside. The tingle blossomed to a surge of heat shooting through his veins. He'd missed her so bloody much. There were no words, only raw and open emotion as his embrace tightened, bringing her as close as possible, leaving no gaps.

Profound hunger made him want to absorb her all when his mouth continued to explore hers intensely. He couldn't hold back any longer. The thread snapped and he needed every part of her. With strength he hadn't felt in months, he picked her up and moved from the kitchen, burnt breakfast forgotten.

* * *

Cal awoke, warm, comfortable, spooning behind a solid figure who no longer existed in the realm of dreams.

He kissed the bare flesh of Gillian's shoulder and smiled at the purred response.

He was back. There was so much to do. He planned to hit the ground running. But first things first. Today was a big day, but there was time.

Glancing over at the alarm clock, he confirmed his instincts.

Yep, there was plenty of time.

Kissing the shoulder again, he grinned when Gillian rolled over into his arms. One soft hand stroked his smooth cheek, her eyes glowing softly in the early morning light.

After a shared shower the previous evening, he'd allowed her to shave his beard. It felt good, as if the last seven months had been stripped away in so simple an action. Neither was quite so naïve to completely believe that but it was a good start. He'd also given her the green light to cut his hair but she'd cringed and passed on the opportunity to scalp him. It was probably for the best.

They made love again, the passion from the previous evening now slowing to a gentle and tender reaffirmation. Exploration had become new again and both reveled in it.

* * *

Without a word, he assisted her with dishes while the second hand crept forward.

It was almost time and everything inside him vibrated with happiness and excitement but nerves tempered the race of his heart. Seven months. Not a lifetime but long enough for huge changes.

Gillian found many excuses to touch him. Brushing past to reach a cabinet, leaning forward to grab the salt from the table, sliding her hand into his and giving it a squeeze, caressing his forearms as he grappled with the urge to make love to her again.

But there wasn't time.

He'd grouse and Gillian would giggle. It was a fake grouse though. Mostly.

When the doorbell chimed, Cal startled, eyes widening, finding Gill's encouraging smile. It would all be okay.

He could feel the breezing of her hand against his elbow when he took a breath, stepped forward and pulled the door toward him. The next breath didn't come.

Red-rimmed dark eyes stared up at him. "Oh my God, Dad. Is it really you?"

His smile wasn't strained. It hadn't been since the previous evening. "Yeah, darlin'. It's me."

His daughter slid into his arms without hesitation while the love of his life stood near, sharing her strength and limitless warmth.

The ledge retreated to some small speck in the back of their minds. It waited but they now knew the trip forward would never be a solitary one.

* * *

_**Hope you enjoyed. Thank you all for your comments and support. **_


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